


Do not go gently into that good night

by Janie_17



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Anderperry if you squint, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neil doesn't die, Poetry, Suicide Attempt, Warning: Suicide Attempt, trigger warning, tw suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janie_17/pseuds/Janie_17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after the play Neil creeps into his father's office and pulls out the gun. TW- attempted suicide. Happy/hopeful ending. Fix-it fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do not go gently into that good night

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: This story was a long time in the making (two years!) but I finally got it finished. I have to warn you though:
> 
>  **Trigger Warning** \- if you are triggered by or are extremely uncomfortable reading attempted suicide DO NOT READ. My story is not anywhere near as important as your health and safety. Stay safe, my lovelies.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own DPS nor the rights to Dylan Thomas's work and I intend no harm.

Neil stood shivering as the cold air washed over his naked torso through the open window. He took a deep breath, determination steeling through him. Slowly he made his way through the house to where he knew his father kept a small handgun. He pulled open the unlocked drawer carefully, wary of making noise. Of course Mr Perry didn't keep it locked. Doing so would suggest that he had reason to fear that someone would take it out of the drawer, which he knew his wife and son would _never_ do. Especially not his son: Neil was a smart kid who usually did as he was told, the current situation aside. Neil hesitantly put his hand into the drawer, the cold metal of the pistol chilling his fingers.

He pulled the gun out carefully, checking the safety mechanism. He stood there, the pistol cradled in his shaking hands. It was as if his brain had turned on a movie of his life. It all flashed by; his first day of school at age five, his father beaming with pride during the fifth grade science fair, going to Welton and meeting the rest of the gang, meeting Todd, Keating's first lesson, getting Todd to come to the Dead Poets meeting, the two of them laughing like fools in their dorm room, Todd's sweaty-toothed madman, the world's first flying desk set, Charlie—no, Nuwanda—Nuwanda's knowing smirk in the direction of Todd and his own answering blush, auditions for the play, Todd trying to talk him out of it so he wouldn't get in trouble with his father, landing the role of Puck, Todd helping him learn his lines by the lake, the way Todd smiled at him during the performance and the worry in his eyes as Neil got dragged away to the car afterwards. It all kept going back to Todd. Sure, Neil had memories from before the shy boy had come into his life, but they were swamped by the sheer mass of Todd in his mind. He figured that if he could have any image in his head before he pulled the trigger, then he wanted it to be the other boy and his kind smile.

Neil raised the gun to his head. He pulled back the hammer, hearing it click. He'd never used, or even held, a gun before, but it didn't seem too hard. Just pull the trigger and that would be it; he'd never have to worry about disappointing his father again. Slowly, he moved his finger, eyes closed, feeling the trigger give beneath it. He let out a breath and opened his eyes as the gun clicked, thinking surely that death couldn't be that easy. And it wasn't. He hadn't died because the gun hadn't gone off. Neil's legs buckled under him, knees crashing into the floor and he sobbed, uncertain if he was crying in joy or despair. Sobs racked his body as he kneeled on the floor, the gun still in his hand.

Mr Perry jolted awake, hearing the loud thump coming from his office. Sliding on his slippers he rushed into the room. He skidded to a halt at the sight of his son holding his pistol. "Neil!" He rushed forward, taking the cold metal from the boy's hand and placing it on the desktop. "Oh, my boy," he muttered, pulling his shaking son into his lap and wrapping his arms around him. "My son." Mr Perry rocked back and forth, holding Neil tightly and murmuring into his hair. He looked up as his wife came into the room. Spying the gun on the desk she exclaimed in horror, shaking her head. "It's alright," Mr Perry replied, barely loud enough for her to hear. "He's alright." His voice broke as silent tears slipped down his cheeks. Mrs Perry, crying her own tears, settled on the floor beside them, tucking her legs beneath her, and resting a hand on Neil's back.

Slowly, in his parents' embrace, Neil's sobs began to die down and the shaking stopped. "I'm sorry," he stammered, voice feeling scratchy from all the crying. "It's alright son," his father replied. "It's alright. You're okay, you're here. It's alright." Neil took a shaky breath, nodding in agreement. "It wasn't loaded," he whispered. Mr Perry gave a watery laugh of relief. "No, it wasn't loaded. I thank God it wasn't loaded." He ruffled his son's hair before pressing a kiss to it. "Please don't send me away to military school," the teen asked, voice cracking. "We won't send you to military school, I promise. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to, son. Not anymore."

More than two weeks later the Dead Poets Society had a formal meeting. Their first formal meeting since before the play. Wrapped tightly in jackets, noses sniffling and red from the cold, the boys tripped into the cave, their breaths coming as puffs of fog. Shuffling into their usual seats they lit the oil lamp that they placed in the centre of the cave. Charlie cleared his throat once they had all settled in. "So, um, we decided that we are going to start this meeting a little differently than normal," he said looking at Neil. "Todd, if you would." He motioned towards the other boy who pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"I..." he stammered, "I'm going to read 'Do not go gently into that good night' by Dylan Thomas." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "I, um, came across it in a book Mr. Keating lent me, and just thought it would be good to, yeah. Here goes:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Todd's voice trailed to an end, the words seeming to echo around the cave. The other teens began to clap and hoot their praises. None of them had heard the boy read a poem out loud voluntarily before, but no one was more shocked than Neil, who sat with a stunned look on his face. He continued to stare at the boy as the meeting progressed. He had agreed to take a back seat in it as he had been out of school for a while 'recuperating,' though it would have been more precise to say he had been out visiting doctors' offices and psychiatrists, instead. As the meeting came to a close, Neil smiled as the other boys left, staying in his seat while hands clapped his shoulders and patted his back. He noticed that Todd, however, had also stayed seated.

As soon as the cave was clear of the other teens, Todd gave Neil a soft smile. He moved over to sit closer to him. "What did you think of the poem?" He asked the other boy.

Neil nodded his head, "Yeah. It was great." His voice shook slightly. "How come you picked that one for your Dead Poets Society debut?"

"It reminded me of you." The inquisitive frown on the other boy's face urged Todd to continue. "I found it a day after they told us what happened, almost happened, the night of the play. And it just, I don't know. I liked how it kept repeating that same line. 'Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And, it's really stupid—" Neil made a noise in protest of that statement but was ignored as Todd kept going. "—but it made me feel better to think that maybe you didn't die," his voice trembled over the simple three-letter word, "because the world was raging against it. I mean, you're a light in the darkness. I'm sorry, that sounds stupid."

"It doesn't sound stupid," Neil replied, voice nearly a whisper. Todd, who had looked away in embarrassment, looked back up to see his roommate's eyes full of tears that hadn't fallen yet. "Thank you, Todd," a tear broke free as he spoke. He wiped it away roughly, glad the others weren't there to see. "I…just, thank you." The other teen hesitantly wrapped his arms around him, whispering "You're welcome," into his ear. At this, Neil allowed himself to break down, the tears streaming down onto Todd's jacket shoulder. The quiet teen tightened his embrace, waiting it out, all the while muttering comforting words to his friend. They stayed that way for a few minutes until the crying subsided. Todd wiped at his eyes hoping Neil didn't notice that his eyes were wet too. Exchanging a smile the pair left the cave, walking hand in hand through the woods. Once inside their room they exchanged good-night's and Neil thought to himself that things seemed to be getting better. He prayed for it to continue. It did.

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: Thank you for reading! Please leave me a review!


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